by Fergus Hume
‘Well, it might not go so far as that, but it might supply the motive for the crime.’
‘I dare say you are right,’ answered Calton, thoughtfully, as the detective rose and put on his hat. ‘But it’s no use. Fitzgerald, for some reason or another, has evidently made up his mind not to speak, so our only hope in saving him lies in finding this girl.’
‘If she’s anywhere in Australia you may be sure she’ll be found,’ answered Kilsip, confidently, as he took his departure. ‘Australia isn’t so overcrowded as all that.’
If Sal Rawlins was in Australia, she certainly must have been in some remote spot, for in spite of all efforts she could not be found anywhere. Whether she was alive or dead was an open question, for she seemed to have vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed her up. The last seen of her was in a Sydney den, with a Chinaman, whom she afterwards left, and since then had neither been seen nor heard of. Notices were put in the papers, both in Australia and New Zealand, offering large rewards for her discovery, but nothing came of them. As she was unable to read herself, she would, of course, be ignorant that she was wanted, and if, as Calton had surmised, she had changed her name, no one else would tell her about it, unless she happened to hear it by chance. Altogether it seemed as if there was no hope except the forlorn one of Sal turning up of her own accord. If she came back to Melbourne she would be certain to go to her grandmother’s place, as she had no motive in keeping away from it; so Kilsip kept a sharp watch on the house, much to Mrs Rawlins’ disgust, for, with true English pride, she objected to this system of espionage.
‘Blarst ’im,’ she croaked over her evening drink, to an old crone as withered and evil looking as herself. ‘Why, in Gawd’s name, can’t ’e stop in ’is own bloomin’ ’ouse, an’ leave mine alone—a-coming round ’ere a-pokin’ and pryin’ and a-perwenting people from earnin’ their livin’ an’ a-gittin’ drunk w’en they ain’t well, cuss ’im.’
‘What do ’e want?’ asked her friend, rubbing her weak old knees.
‘Wants, cuss ’im—’e wants ’is damned throat cut,’ said Mother Guttersnipe, viciously. ‘An’ s’elp me Gawd I’ll do for ’im some night w’en ’e’s a-watchin’ round ’ere as if it were Pentridge—’e can git what he can out of that whelp as ran away, cuss ’er; but I knows suthin’ ’e don’t know—blarst ’im.’ She ended with a senile laugh, and her companion having taken advantage of the long speech to drink some gin out of the broken cup, Mother Guttersnipe seized the unfortunate old creature by the hair, and in spite of her feeble cries, banged her head against the wall.
‘I’ll have the perlice in at yer,’ whimpered the assaulted one, as she tottered as quickly away as her rheumatics would let her. ‘See if I don’t.’
‘Go to ’ell,’ retorted Mother Guttersnipe, indifferently, as she filled herself a fresh cup. ‘You come a-falutin’ round ’ere agin prigin’ my drinks, cuss you, an’ I’ll cut yer throat an’ wring yer wicked old ’ead orf, blarst you.’
The other gave a howl of dismay at hearing this pleasant proposal to end her, and tottered out as quickly as possible, leaving Mother Guttersnipe in undisputed possession of the field.
Meanwhile Calton had seen Brian several times, and used every argument in his power to get him to tell everything, but he maintained an obstinate silence, or merely answered, ‘It would only break her heart.’
He admitted to Calton, after a good deal of questioning, that he had been at Mother Guttersnipe’s on the night of the murder. After he had left Whyte by the corner of the Scotch Church, as the cabman, Royston, had stated, he had gone along Russell Street, and met Sal Rawlins near the Unicorn Hotel. She had taken him to Mother Guttersnipe’s, where he had seen the dying woman, who had told him something he could not reveal.
‘Well,’ said Mr Calton, after hearing the admission, ‘you might have saved us all this trouble by admitting this before, and yet kept your secret, whatever it may be. Had you done so, we might have got a hold of Sal Rawlins before she left Melbourne; but now it’s only a chance whether she turns up or not.’
Brian did not answer this, and, in fact, hardly seemed to be thinking of what the lawyer was saying; but just as Calton was leaving he asked—
‘How is Madge?’
‘How can you expect her to be?’ said Calton, turning angrily on him. ‘She is very ill, owing to the worry she has been in over this affair.’
‘My darling! My darling!’ cried Brian, in agony, clasping his hands above his head. ‘I only did it to save you.’
Calton approached him, and laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.
‘My dear fellow,’ he said, gravely, ‘the confidences between lawyer and client are as sacred as those between priest and penitent. You must tell me this secret which concerns Miss Frettlby so deeply.’
‘No,’ said Brian, firmly, ‘I will never reveal what that cursed woman told me. When I would not tell you before, in order to save my life, it is not likely I am going to do so now, when I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by telling it.’
‘I will never ask you again,’ said Calton, rather annoyed, as he walked to the door. ‘And as to this accusation of murder, if I can find this girl you are safe.’
When the lawyer left the gaol he went to the detective office to see Kilsip, and ascertain if there was any news of Sal Rawlins; but, as usual, there was none.
‘It is fighting against Fate,’ he said, sadly, as he went away; ‘his life hangs on a mere chance.’
The trial was fixed to come off in September, and of course there was great excitement in Melbourne over the matter. Great, therefore, was the disappointment when it was discovered that the prisoner’s counsel had applied for an adjournment of the trial till October, on the ground that an important witness for the defence could not be found.
To Brian himself the suspense was intolerable; but he had great faith in Calton, and best of all, the lawyer brought him a little note from Madge with the one word, ‘Courage.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE TRIAL
In spite of the utmost vigilance on the part of the police, and the offer of a large reward, both by Calton on behalf of the accused, and by Mr Frettlby, the much desired Sal Rawlins still remained hidden. The millionaire had maintained a most friendly attitude towards Brian throughout the whole affair. He refused to believe him guilty, and when Calton told him of the defence of proving an alibi by means of Sal Rawlins, he immediately offered a large reward, which was enough in itself to set every person with any time on their hands hunting for the missing witness.
All Australia and New Zealand rang with the extremely plebeian name of Sal Rawlins, the papers being full of notices offering rewards; and handbills in staring red letters were posted up in all railway stations, in conjunction with Lewis’s Egg Powder and someone else’s Pale Ale. She had become famous without knowing it, unless, indeed, she had kept herself concealed on purpose; but this was hardly probable, as there was no apparent motive for her doing so. If she was above ground she must certainly have seen the handbills, if not the papers; and, though not being able to read, could hardly help hearing something about the one topic of conversation throughout Australia. Notwithstanding all this Sal Rawlins was still undiscovered, and Calton in despair began to think that she must be dead. But Madge, though at times her courage gave way, was still hopeful.
‘God will not permit such a judicial crime to be committed as the murder of an innocent man,’ she declared.
Mr Calton, to whom she said this, shook his head doubtfully. ‘God has permitted it to take place before,’ he answered sadly, ‘and we can only judge the future by the past.’
At last the day of the long-expected trial came, and as Calton sat in his office looking over his brief, a clerk entered and told him Mr Frettlby and his daughter wished to see him. When they came in the barrister saw that the millionaire looked haggard and ill, and there was a look of worry on his face.
‘There is my daughter, Calton,’ he s
aid, after hurried greetings had been exchanged. ‘She wants to be present in court during Fitzgerald’s trial, and nothing I can say will dissuade her.’
Calton turned, and looked at the girl in some surprise.
‘Yes,’ she answered, meeting his look steadily, though her face was very pale, ‘I must be there. I will go mad with anxiety unless I know how the trial goes on.’
‘But think of the disagreeable amount of attention you will attract,’ urged the lawyer.
‘No one will recognise me,’ she said, calmly, ‘I am very plainly dressed, and I will wear this veil;’ and, drawing one from her pocket, she went over to a small looking glass which was hanging on the wall and tied it over her face.
Calton looked in a perplexed manner at Mr Frettlby.
‘I’m afraid you must consent,’ he said.
‘Very well,’ replied the other, almost sternly, while a look of annoyance passed over his face. ‘I will leave her in your charge.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m not coming,’ answered Frettlby quickly, putting on his hat. ‘I don’t care about seeing a man whom I have had at my dinner table in the prisoner’s dock, much as I sympathise with him. Good day;’ and with a curt nod he took his leave.
When the door closed on her father Madge placed her hand on Calton’s arm.
‘Any hope?’ she whispered, looking at him through the black veil.
‘The merest chance,’ answered Calton, putting his brief into his bag. ‘We have done everything in our power to discover this girl, but without effect. If she does not come at the eleventh hour I’m afraid Brian Fitzgerald is a doomed man.’
Madge fell on her knees, with a stifled cry.
‘Oh, God of mercy,’ she cried, raising her hands as if in prayer, ‘save him. Save my darling, and let him not die for the crime of another—God—’
She dropped her face in her hands and wept convulsively, as the lawyer touched her lightly on the shoulder.
‘Come,’ he said, kindly. ‘Be the brave girl you were, and we may save him yet. The hour is darkest before the dawn, you know.’
Madge dried her tears and followed the lawyer to the cab, which was waiting for them at the door. They drove quickly up to the court, and Calton put her in a quiet place, where she could see the dock and yet be unobserved by the people in the body of the court. Just as he was leaving her she touched his arm.
‘Tell him,’ she whispered in a trembling voice, ‘tell my darling I am here.’
Calton nodded, and hurried away to put on his wig and gown, while Madge looked hurriedly round the court from her point of vantage. It was crowded with fashionable Melbourne of both sexes, and they were all talking together in subdued whispers. The popular character of the prisoner, his good looks, and engagement to Madge Frettlby, together with the extraordinary circumstances of the case, has raised public curiosity to the highest pitch, and, consequently, everybody who could possibly manage to gain admission was there. Felix Rolleston had secured an excellent seat beside the pretty Miss Featherweight whom he admired so much, and he was chattering to her with the utmost volubility.
‘Puts me in mind of the Colosseum and all that sort of thing, you know,’ he said, putting up his eyeglass and staring round. ‘Butchered to make a Roman holiday, by Jove.’
‘Don’t say such horrid things, you frivolous creature,’ simpered Miss Featherweight, using her smelling-bottle. ‘We are all here out of sympathy for that poor dear Mr Fitzgerald.’
The mercurial Felix, who had more cleverness in him than people gave him credit for, smiled outright at this eminently feminine way of covering an overpowering curiosity.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, lightly, ‘exactly. I dare say Eve only ate the apple because she didn’t like to see such a lot of good fruit go to waste.’
Miss Featherweight looked at him doubtfully, as though she was not quite certain if he was in jest or earnest, but just as she was about to reply that she thought it wicked to make jokes on the Bible, the judge entered, and all the court arose to receive him. When the prisoner was brought in there was a great flutter among the ladies, and some of them even had the bad taste to produce opera glasses. Brian noticed this, and he flushed up to the roots of his fair hair, for he felt his degradation acutely. He was an intensely proud man, and to be placed in the criminal dock with a lot of frivolous people, who had called themselves his friends, looking at him as though he were a new actor or a wild animal, was galling in the extreme. He was dressed in black, and looked pale and worn, but all the ladies declared that he was as good-looking as ever, and they were sure he was innocent.
The jury were sworn in, and the Crown Prosecutor arose to deliver his opening address. As all present in the court only knew the facts of the case through the medium of the newspapers, and floating rumours, each of which contradicted the other, they were unaware of the true history of the events which had led to Fitzgerald’s arrest, and they therefore prepared to listen to the speech with profound attention. The ladies ceased to talk, the men to stare round, and nothing could be seen but row after row of eager and attentive faces, hanging on the words that issued from the lips of the Crown Prosecutor. He was not a great orator, but he spoke clearly and distinctly, and every word could be heard in the dead silence.
He gave a rapid sketch of the crime, which was merely a repetition of what had been published in the newspapers, and then proceeded to enumerate the witnesses who could prove the prisoner guilty. He would call the landlady of the deceased to show that ill-blood existed between the prisoner and the murdered man, and that the accused had called on the deceased a week prior to the committal of the crime, and threatened his life. (There was great excitement at this, and several ladies decided on the spur of the moment that the horrid man was guilty, but the majority of the female spectators still refused to believe in the guilt of such a good-looking young fellow.) He would call a witness who could prove that Whyte was drunk on the night of the murder, and went along Russell Street, in the direction of Collins Street; the cabman Royston could swear to the fact that the prisoner had hailed the cab, and after going away for a short time, returned and entered the cab with the deceased. He would also prove that the prisoner left the cab at the grammar school, in the St Kilda Road, and on the arrival of the cab at the junction he discovered the deceased had been murdered. The cabman Rankin would prove that he drove the prisoner from the St Kilda Road to Powlett Street, in East Melbourne, where he got out, and he would call the prisoner’s landlady to prove that the prisoner resided in Powlett Street, and that on the night of the murder he had not reached home till shortly after two o’clock. He would also call the detective, who had charge of the case, to prove the finding of a glove belonging to the deceased in the pocket of the coat which the prisoner wore on the night of the murder; and the doctor who had examined the body of the deceased would give evidence that the death was caused by inhalation of chloroform. As he had now fully shown the chain of evidence which he proposed to prove, he would call the first witness, Malcolm Royston.
Royston, on being sworn, gave the same evidence as he had given at the inquest, from the time that the cab was hailed up to his arrival at the St Kilda police station with the dead body of Whyte. In the cross-examination Calton asked him if he was prepared to swear that the man who hailed the cab, and the man who got in with the deceased, were one and the same person.
WITNESS: I am.
CALTON: You are quite certain.
WITNESS: Yes; quite certain.
CALTON: Do you then recognise the prisoner as the man who hailed the cab?
WITNESS(hesitating): I cannot swear to that. The gentleman who hailed the cab had his hat pulled down over his eyes, so that I could not see his face; but the height and general appearance of the prisoner are the same.
CALTON: Then it is only because the man who got into the cab was dressed like the prisoner on that night that you thought they were both the same?
WITNESS: It never struck me for a minute tha
t they were not the same; besides he spoke as if he had been there before. I said, ‘Oh, you’ve come back,’ and he said. ‘Yes; I’m going to take him home,’ and got into my cab.
CALTON: Did you notice any difference in his voice?
WITNESS: No; except that the first time I saw him he spoke in a loud voice, and the second time he came back, very low.
CALTON: You were sober, I suppose?
WITNESS(indignantly): Yes; quite sober.
CALTON: Ah! you did not have a drink, say at the Oriental Hotel, which I believe is near the rank where your cab stands?
WITNESS(hesitating): Well, I might have had a glass.
CALTON: So you might; you might have had several.
WITNESS(sulkily): Well, there’s no law against a cove feeling thirsty.
CALTON: Certainly not; and I suppose you took advantage of the absence of such a law.
WITNESS(defiantly): Yes, I did.
CALTON: And you were elevated?
WITNESS: Yes, on my cab—(laughter).
CALTON(severely): You are here to give evidence, sir, not to make jokes, however clever they may be. Were you, or were you not slightly the worse for drink?
WITNESS: I might have been.
CALTON: So you were in such a condition, that you did not observe very closely the man who hailed you?
WITNESS: No, I didn’t—there was no reason why I should—I didn’t know a murder was going to be committed.
CALTON: And it never struck you it might be a different man?
WITNESS: No, I thought it was the same man the whole time.
This closed Royston’s evidence, and Calton sat down very dissatisfied at not being able to elicit anything more definite from him. One thing appeared clear, that someone must have dressed himself to resemble Brian, and spoke in a low voice, because he was afraid of betraying himself.
Clement Rankin, the next witness, deposed to having picked up the prisoner on the St Kilda Road, between one and two on Friday morning, and driven him to Powlett Street, East Melbourne. In the cross-examination, Calton elicited one point in the prisoner’s favour.
